I can’t show other beings, like kids or pets growing up—but I can show me growing up.
On my screen is a collage of me across the years: 2009, 2011, 2016, 2018, 2025. The early squares glow in that dramatic Photo Booth blue—cool, moody, a little other-worldly. The last frame is warmer, more ordinary light. Less filter, more face.
Lately I’ve been thinking about the girl in that first square. Her hopes and dreams. Her fears and secret wishes. I wonder what she’d say if she could see me now. Would she be proud? Still scared? Amazed? Empathic? Maybe all of it at once.
A line from today’s devotional found me and wouldn’t let go:
“I will not die an unlived life, I will not live in fear of falling or catching fire.
I choose to inhabit my days, to allow my living to open me, to make me less afraid, more accessible, to loosen my heart until it becomes a wing, a torch, a promise…”
—Dawna Markova
I know the 2009 me would have felt those words like a bell rung in her chest. The 2025 me feels them even more.
2009: Blue Beginnings
A teenager with a laptop and a filter, trying on faces. I see a steady gaze that didn’t match the shaky footing underneath. I see a girl who wanted a map, and learned to walk by moving anyway.
2011: Edges and Experiments
Hair shorter, jaw set. The plan was “be braver,” though bravery mostly meant pressing “publish,” raising a hand, saying “yes” before I was ready. Fear came too, but in those experiments I met my own voice.
2016: Curves and Chaos
Life got curly—hair and everything else. I learned that grief can braid itself into joy, that strength and softness can live in the same square. I started naming what I needed and asking for help when I didn’t have it.
2018: Less Filter, More Light
The colors mellowed. I began practicing presence—showing up in real rooms, for real people, with less performance and more attention. Perfection stopped being the point; faithfulness did.
2025: Ordinary Radiance
This year’s photo looks simple: evening lamp light, a quiet room, a face I recognize. I’m not done growing (thank God), but the thermostat has shifted. I don’t live in that cool blue anymore. I carry my own warmth.
When I look at these squares, I don’t see a straight line. I see a conversation—between who I was and who I’m becoming. The girl in the first frame taught me wonder and watchfulness. She would be proud that I keep choosing to inhabit my days: to be less afraid and more accessible; to let my heart loosen into a wing, a torch, a promise.
If you need permission today to grow beyond your old filter, here it is. Save the tenderness of who you were. Keep the courage of who you’re becoming. And step—one imperfect, luminous step—into the light that’s already yours.
